


A Slap That Numbs

by Anarhichas



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Gang Rape, Gore, M/M, Mutilation, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarhichas/pseuds/Anarhichas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin is made an example of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slap That Numbs

**Author's Note:**

> This is possibly the least elegant thing I have ever written haha. As ever please offer any concrit you can, I'll be grateful for it all.
> 
> Please note the warnings! This is pretty severely gory.
> 
> Written for the kink meme prompt: http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/3666.html?thread=5923154#cmt5923154

The first thing they do, after locking the door and stripping him, is break his feet.

It only takes one man to hold him, face pressed to the cold stone floor, and one other to bring the hammer down in lazy swings onto the soles of his bare feet. The other man and two women are left redundant, watching from the side-lines. Armin feels the fracture and snap of his fragile bones like standing on red hot coals, tearing away his thoughts like gale winds and autumn leaves. He screams and Eren screams with him.

‘Stop! Stop it I swear I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt him I swear I will please stop please–’

Eren, tied to a chair, doesn’t sound angry like he had when Armin was dragged into the room, this cellar deep underground. He sounds frightened.

One of the woman backhands him fiercely, then gags him when it doesn't shut him up. Armin locks eyes with him from where he's still pinned down on the floor. He is too terrified to look away. He needs Eren’s strength.

The man with the hammer drops it carelessly, and as it clatters on the ground Armin flinches. One of the women laughs, long and low and ugly. Eren is making noises from behind his gag – they sound like he's being suffocated. Armin clings to them all the same, as his fingers grip the dirty stones of the floor. Hands reach down and grasp him by the hips, pulling him up to kneeling.

The cheeks of his arse are pulled apart and he is split open without further warning. Armin screws his eyes shut as he screams again, raw, and all his struggles are made futile by the immovable hands on his waist. He claws at the hands, then the ground as the cock grinds further and further in, squeezing out the oil it had been coated in to trickle with hot blood down his thighs. The hips behind him jerk, slapping balls against his skin, again and again, and Armin feels like he wants to die from the pain and crude violation tearing up his guts. It seems to go on forever.

Another man steps on his hands, grinding the fingers with the heel on his boot. Trapped between them Armin struggled all the harder. He tries to punch the crotch of the man in front of him, and is rewarded with a slap that numbs his entire face.

The man forcing into him withdraws and Armin, no longer supported, falls to the floor. He gasps, tries to crawl away even though the pain in his feet and now his arse feel enough to blind him. The door is locked, the key’s location unknown. He tries to reach Eren. Eren can still fix this. One of the woman walks up casually to kick him hard in the shoulder, then in the head when he curls up. She uncurls him to lie him on his back, then kneels on his throat to stop him escaping. She has a small knife in her hand, plain and single edged, a hunting knife. Armin's eyes follow it involuntarily, the metal glinting red in the firelight. He moans in fear as it's dragged across the skin of his chest, too frightened to be brave, slicing into the skin just deep enough to part it to the muscle below. Blood wells up and trickles to the floor, path barely discernible through the pain. The knife carries on down, skirting around his belly button to his crotch.

Armin's chest heaves as he breathes far too fast. The woman is replaced at his head with a motion of her free hand, and she sits on his legs before grabbing his cock with a casual grasp.

She stabs the knife into the head, dragging down to slice it wide open in one careless move. The air in Armin's lungs scratches his throat raw as it escapes. The knife returns, slicing down the length of his cock deep enough to near split it in half, and Armin claws at the man pinning down his upper body. The man takes his hands and slams them to the ground hard enough that one finger snaps but Armin cannot stop struggling. The knife circles around the base of his cock, slices deeper and deeper with each new circuit until the flesh is parted from his body, cock and balls dropping to the floor between his blood soaked thighs.

The woman gets off his legs and Armin curls up, choking. There is no position left that does not leave his body screaming in agony. The man picks him up, large hands under his armpits, and presses his back to a wall. He parts Armin’s legs and pushes into him without preparation, lubricated by the first man and the blood dripping freely, pattering on the floor like rain. Armin presses his feet against the man’s hips reflexively, trying to push away, then takes them off when the sharp stabbing reminds him that they are broken, swollen and worse than useless. He wraps his legs around the man's waist instead, crying as he clings to him. His mutilated crotch bumps into the man's flabby stomach with every thrust.

Eventually the man comes, groaning and swearing, and finished he lets Armin drop to the floor. Armin's eyes are tight shut but sharp light flashes at the pain of impact. He screams incoherently as he is grabbed, dragged to his hands and knees and forward into the middle of the room. A cock, fat and foul tasting, forces itself into his mouth. With it a hand grips his face, fingers pushing between his lips to hold his jaw open. They taste of sweat and blood.

Armin gags. The cock hits the back of his throat, hard and fast and again and again, spit swelling up to drown him and dribble from his chin. Armin vomits, soft chunks of food and acid burning through his mouth and up his nose. The man doesn’t stop thrusting, or remove his cock. Armin cries as he continues to throw up around the intrusion, uncontrolled sobbing, stomach heaving. He wants to die. He wants to fold up and stop existing. His whole body shakes violently.

There is the sound of metal scraping across metal. Armin shudders as the man comes in his throat, ejaculate mixing with the vomit to be undetectable. He is pushed onto his back and he lies there shaking, not having the strength to move.

The pain that splashes onto his crotch makes him scream, blinds him, twists his limbs until he finds himself fighting one of the women as she sits behind him, grasping his arms and chest close to her own, pinning his legs with her ankles. The pain sears up into his belly and chest like a driven blade, makes him think he's dying. Through his tears he watches, helpless and out his mind with terror, as the small black pot that had been resting over the fire, which now contains boiling oil, is tipped and the remainder of the contents poured onto his raw flesh.

It cauterises the bleeding, washes away the blood and turns the skin and meat a shocking white. Armin faints. He is brought back from a moment of mindless darkness to sharpness in his nose, a smell twisting around in his head. He coughs and then cries from the agony in his body.

One of the women pushes him down and sits on his face, wet and hot over his lips and chin. Armin gags at the taste pushing into his throat, the smell coating his tongue thickly.

‘Lick,’ the woman says, gripping his hair to angle his face up into her crotch, but his lips are numb, his tongue lolling and feeble in the back of his mouth. The woman waits a moment then grinds down onto him, rubbing against his lips. She sits on his chest, takes his hand and holding the fingers between her own she pushes him up into herself, slick, forcing the thumb to awkwardly rub along the outside of her.

Armin feels boneless. He feels like he's been gutted, his ribs opened up and organs torn out. Every breath is agony, shallow gasps that don't ever seem to take in enough air. The woman drops his hand and returns to rubbing over his face. Her thighs grip his head, claustrophobic, too strong to break away from. Suddenly they tense, holding tighter.

The woman stops, and gets up. Armin continues to lie there. He cannot stop crying. His body fails to move as he listens to the sound of footsteps around him, save for the uneven shudder of his ribs pushing breath in and out. How long has this been going on for? How long until it stops?

Hands take one of his own, pressing it palm down into the floor as someone crouches above his arm. He lets it and waits, spent, mind too clouded. The blade again, this time working between the last knuckle of his index finger. It wriggles carefully, prying apart the bones, snapping the ligaments, slicing the meat. Then, when the small section is cut away fully, the knife moves down to the next knuckle.

Armin paws at the back of the person with his free hand. His fingers are too weak to even grasp properly, sliding down the fabric of their shirt. His arm is not strong enough to hold his hand up and he curls on his side, pulling his free limbs into his chest. He cannot tell which finger they are on now – every new slice is just another in the mass of ruined flesh, the agony an imprecise knot.

It stops, only for a moment to pass before the scrape of metal, the sound of the oil pot being taken from the fire, makes Armin writhe uselessly. His hand is returned to him as nothing more than a blistering lump at the end of his wrist, each finger cut out neatly.

They kick his curled, motionless form. The hammer is brought back and they smash his kneecaps and elbows. They talk a little between themselves, but the words won't sit in Armin's head. They drift, bits and pieces, nonsensical.

Armin is straightened and rolled onto his belly. He tries to roll back but hands push him down and struggling against them feels like trying to jump without falling straight back to earth. The floor is slippery. It reeks. His legs are shoved apart, straightened, pushing the ruination of his mutilated crotch into the ground. Something cold pushes against his arse, uncoordinated, before forcing its way in. Thin, but too long – it warms from the blood it bursts open from torn guts, and Armin breaks apart the cauterised skin on his hand when he claws the ground to get away. He screams, but the screams are tired.

Someone notices the fresh blood and goes to get the oil.

They move from the long, thin thing – a straight fire iron – to an empty vine bottle, forcing it in neck first until it splits him open. Pushed too far, forced into his body entirely, they leave it there after no one finds they can grip the slippery glass well enough to pull it back out again.

When they finish, stepping away, Armin barely realises. He lies on his front, limbs askew. His body is numb, drifting; he can barely feel the floor beneath him. The world is dislocated. He can see Eren, still strapped to the chair. How had he forgotten about Eren? He tries to say something but his mouth doesn’t seem to work, not responding at all.

He’s so cold.

Eren’s eyes are closed. He’s crying, and his gag is wet. Is he shaking or is that just the blurriness of Armin’s own vision?

There’s something extraordinarily wrong about the situation, but Armin cannot grasp what.

‘Enjoy the show?’ a man’s voice says.

No reply.

‘Listen up, little shit.’ A woman’s voice this time. ‘I’m going to untie you, and you’re gonna do exactly what I tell you to, understand? You don’t get to fucking piss without my permission. Because you see the mess this shit-stain made? Won’t be half of what we’ll do to your pretty girlfriend if you look at me wrong.

‘You think I’m fucking joking? Wanna bet on it?’

A long silence. Armin opens his eyes painstakingly. Eren. Something about Eren.

Eren is untied, standing with fists clenched and his face turned down, looking at the floor. Why is he gagged? The room is dark. Did they let the fire go out? Armin wishes Eren would look up. He wants to see that he’s still okay. Nobody moves and, exhausted, Armin closes his eyes. There is pain in his body – brutal agony, sharp like knives, like fire – but it is far away. Nearly unnoticeable if he doesn’t move.

‘Are you fucking deaf? When the fuck did I say you could go to him?’

Quiet again, beyond the whistling air through his lungs. Then there is... laughter? Harsh breathing? Someone is crying rough, muffled sobs low in their chest.

‘Want to test how fast my runners can go once they hear you screwed up? No? Then shut up and follow me.’

The sound of a lock snaps through the room, then a door opening, far away. The crying fades and the door closes. It’s quiet, more so than before. He’s alone. Lying where they left him Armin doesn’t have the strength to shiver. It’s still so cold, he thinks, as he drifts away slowly.


End file.
